


silk and steel

by IceisAwesome



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, King Stannis, Older Sansa, POV Multiple, Queen Sansa, Sansa is a subtle badass, Sansa is raised in King's Landing, Sansa-centric, Stannis likes it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2018-11-30 21:33:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11472105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceisAwesome/pseuds/IceisAwesome
Summary: Sansa needs a way to avoid marrying the prince. A solution comes to her once she realizes the king wants a Stark-Baratheon union, but doesn't particularly care which Baratheon she marries. Enter Stannis Baratheon, a man known for being cold and hard, but a far better match than a monster like Joffrey.





	1. Chapter 1

The royal court is a cruel place.

Sansa dreamed of it when she was a child. She listened to the merchants and the rare few Southern knights that traveled through Winterfell. She dreamed of the gold drapes and the gilded chairs, of the lords and ladies dancing in fine silks and velvet.

She wanted nothing more than to be one of those ladies, wanted it until mother died.

Mother died and father didn’t know what to do with her. She doesn’t fault him for that, she was a girl, not a son or a daughter that could be mistaken for one, not like Arya.

Father didn’t know what to do, so he succumbed to the king’s suggestions and Sansa’s former desires and sent her South. She remembers crying the entire trip there, nearly screaming when she realized she even missed Arya. Arya, who had slipped snakes into her bed and thrown jam in her hair.

Sansa had come to a court a pale slip of a girl still deep in mourning. She had come to court a grieving child and all the glittering courtiers saw was another potential bit of prey.

The royal court is a cruel place, and the grand game deadly.

So she learned how to survive. She learned to say the right words to the right people, she learned to befriend the servant girls and she learned how to tell the false whispers from the true.

Sansa does not count herself a master of the game, but she does well enough. She is held in high esteem, despite being an outsider and every noble knowing her privilege only comes from the king’s old friendship with her father.

The life at the court is grand, when one can play the game successfully. It is grand, and gaudy, and filled with luxury. It is everything she had once wanted and she hates it.

Nobles who say the wrong thing or step out of line-even once-are ostracized at best and murdered at worst. No one tells the truth here, no one does anything but lie. There are no friends here, only allies that everyone knows will eventually become enemies. The gold and the finery only hide pain and misery.

To tell the truth, Sansa would have written to her father long ago and begged to come home. But the king had insisted, and even her father cannot refuse the king.

Sansa cannot wait to be free of this, cannot wait until father secures her a marriage with a Northern lord and she can leave. She longs for it. Dreams of it, even, dreams of seeing Winterfell again and walking through the Northern snow. She dreams of a husband strong and gentle and not vicious and vain like so many of the men at court.

Soon enough, father will write. Soon enough, he will have chosen her a husband. All she has to do is wait.

* * *

The serving girl undoing her plaits is nervous, usually quick hands fumbling through her braids. This is not the fumbling of a drunk, this is the actions of someone scared.

“Celia?”

“M’lady?” the girl asks, trying poorly to disguise her disquiet.

“Is something wrong? Is Alyn sick again? I have coin to spare if you have need of it-”

“No!” Celia blurts out before stepping away, one hand covering her mouth.

Sansa turns to look at the pale faced girl, gently reaching out a hand.

“You know you can tell me anything,” she says, voice gentle. Celia is a new servant, but she has to have heard of Sansa from the others. She does not control her little birds through fear like the queen. Sansa is kind to the servants and they are kind in turn.

“I served the wine at the small council meeting today and then I met with Beth in the kitchens, after she came back from serving the queen and king tonight.”

“And?” Sansa asks, voice still gentle.

Celia blinks, seemingly about to cry.

“They want to marry you off, m’lady. The king and the queen want you to marry Joffrey.”

Even by the standards of the court, Prince Joffrey is uncommonly vicious. More monster than man, if truth be told. Everyone knows the servant girls he takes a liking to end up missing and the cleaners have spoken of how he beats his whores.

“M’lady?” Celia says, clearly alarmed, when she sees Sansa pale and grip the girl’s hands tighter.

“I’m fine, Celia” Sansa replies through the pounding in her head and the thick knot of fear in her belly. Joffrey. Joffrey will be king when his father passes, Joffrey is his mother’s favorite. Nothing will keep her safe, not her father’s name or her father’s efforts, not while he is away in the North.

“Do you know what they’ll do next?” Sansa asks, voice still faint, still clutching at Celia’s hands with a white knuckle grip.

“The king said he’d invite Lord Stark to the court in a month’s time, m’lady.”

A month. Only a month to find a way to avoid marrying a monster.

“Thank you, Celia,” Sansa whispers, finally releasing the servant girl’s hands. “I think I will finish unbraiding my hair myself.”

“Of course, m’lady,” the girl responds, dropping into a curtsy before leaving.

Sansa closes her eyes as the door shuts, doing her best to ignore the look of pity in Celia’s eyes as she departed.

I am a Stark. I am a lady of the North. I am a Stark, and I will not let myself be tied to a monster in the shape of a man.

* * *

Everyone at court knows of King Robert’s lost love. Half the court thinks Lyanna fled, half the court thinks she was kidnapped. Whatever the cause, she was found bleeding out in the birthing bed, refusing to name the babe’s father.

The king’s lost love was a Stark, her own aunt. The king’s lost love was a Stark, and he is well known for being friends with her father. Is this what he wants? To unite the Starks and Baratheons?

It’s nothing more than a guess, nothing more than a suspicion she can’t act on until she spies on Joffrey tormenting his brother.

He is taunting Tommen, taunting the boy about his infatuation with Sansa. (She knows of it, of course, but she’s always found it sweet. He is so much younger, they both know it wouldn’t happen.) Sansa finds an alcove to hide in, hoping Joffrey’s loose tongue will be of use.

It’s hard to keep herself calm when he starts bragging to his brother and says such horrible things about Sansa. Vile things, things that far outpace the filthy talk she has overheard between amorous servants or drunk nobles. She wants to run, wants to flee to her rooms, but she knows she has to stay. Joffrey’s loose tongue is infamous, something has to slip.

It’s not Joffrey’s tongue, though, that proves her suspicion. No, instead Myrcella is her saving grace when the girl moves to defend her brother.

“Father wants to unite our houses,” the girl snaps, straightening her spine and scowling when Joffrey takes an angry step towards her. “You may be the prince, but you’re not the only Baratheon.”

“And who else will she marry?” Joffrey sneers, “our uncle? No, the Stark girl will belong to me.”

Sansa can hardly think, hands shaking in something like relief. Renly Baratheon is betrothed (and well known for his interest in lords and not ladies.) Renly Baratheon is betrothed, but their other uncle is not. Even better, he is one of the few men that can refuse the king with no real consequences.

Stannis Baratheon is known for being hard and cold, for being one of the few nobles not tempted by a pretty face. But he is also known to be practical, he has to want a heir. It is true he is known for being harsh, but better a man that’s harsh than a monster like Joffrey.

Yes, Stannis Baratheon will make a suitable match.

* * *

It is easy enough to wait until the king is drunk and agreeable to make her request. King Robert does not play the game like the rest of the nobility, he does not suspect an ulterior motive when Sansa suggests inviting the Starks and Baratheons to court. 

The queen suspects something, that much is clear by her narrowed eyes and pursed lips, but Sansa has been dutiful in hiding her own disgust and fear of the queen’s favored son.

Sansa has played the game well, and part of her strategy has always been masking her own skill. She doubts even Lord Baelish has guessed her true intentions. Hopefully by the time they come close to the truth Stannis will have agreed, and by then it won’t matter.

* * *

Oh, it is sweet to see her family again. Robb is back at home, overseeing Winterfell, but everyone else has come to the capital. There’s a pang of sadness, though, when she sees how much they’ve changed.

Bran has a thin line of hair around his mouth and Rickon is nearly as tall as Robb. And then there’s Arya. Arya, who looks like everyone says Lyanna looked. Sansa is used to watching others, she sees how the older nobles look twice at her sister. Sansa sees it, and a spark of anger comes to life. The court would eat her little sister alive, and she will be damned before she lets that happen.

She feels a frisson of excitement, though, under the anger. Lord Baratheon will arrive tomorrow. If her plan works she will be free of the court and free of Joffrey within the month.

* * *

She catches father in the halls and convinces him to come to her rooms.

Once the door is closed and the servants dismissed she settles into one of the gilded chairs and tilts her head to the other one.

Father sits awkwardly, clearly unused to the delicate chairs compared to the rough wood in the North, and Sansa feels another pang of sadness.

“Why are we in your rooms, Sansa?”

“There are always spies in the quest quarters, father.”

Father frowns, eyes narrowing, before he speaks. “And what is so important that we must speak in secret?”

Sansa bites her lip. She has spent so long at court that she has grown used to saying half truths and spinning lies. She has not told the truth-the unvarnished truth-in years.

“The king wants me to marry Prince Joffrey,” she finally says, “and I will not.”

“And how do you know this? Robert has not even mentioned it,” father asks.

“I have spent years at court,” she replies with an irritated glare, “to survive here you must learn to play the game.”

Father seems unnerved by her response, but Sansa doesn’t care.

“If this is true, you would be queen,” father says as though she is a simpleton.

“I do not care!” Sansa snaps, voice rising, “I will not marry Joffrey. I will not marry a man known for beating whores, a man whose favored serving girls always disappear.”

Finally, father seems to understand, mouth drawn tight and eyes narrow.

“Then when Robert asks, I will refuse.”

“You cannot,” Sansa says plainly. “House Stark no longer has the respect it once commanded and the king is used to getting what he wants, and we no longer have the power to refuse outright.”

“What would you have me do, then?” he asks, sharp eyes showing he has noticed her choice of words.

“King Robert still mourns Aunt Lyanna,” she replies, noticing how father winces. “My… _sources_ have revealed that his desire is to unite the Starks and Baratheons. I need to marry a Baratheon, I do not have to marry Joffrey.”

She sighs when father still appears confused.

“The king has two brothers, father. One may be betrothed, but the other is not.”

“Stannis?” father asks, sounding aghast. “You would marry Stannis?”

“Better a man known for being cold and distant than a monster like Joffrey,” she says, voice rising in frustration.

“I have thought about this. I cannot stand the court and I cannot bear the thought of marrying Joffrey, this solution eliminates both problems. And if I marry Lord Baratheon we gain the king’s favor and our house regains some lost respect.”

Her father looks at her as though she’s a stranger. Sansa knows what he sees. He sent away a grieving and lost child and came back to a courtier playing the grand game.

“I trust you,” he finally says. “If this is truly what you want, I will do it.”

For the first time in years she allows herself the indulgence of physical touch, rushing into her father's arms and wrapping her own around him.

* * *

Sansa makes sure to be among the gathered nobles when Stannis and his brother arrive at court.

Renly has a laughing smile and clever blue eyes, is ever the image of a handsome young lord. His brother beside him, the man she hopes to marry, is not.

Sansa watches as he frowns in contrast to his brother’s smile, notices how his blue eyes are hard like ice compared to the easy warmth of Renly’s. She sees his close cropped black hair and how it’s already receding, she sees the grey in his stubble. 

She sees all this, and still she smiles. When the worst rumors only claim him too dutiful and too honor bound, he is bound to be a far better man than most at court. (They also claim he has no cock, but every lord makes that accusation when another man doesn’t do what he wants.)

There’s a nervous knot in her belly as she watches Stannis, a growing frisson of fear and excitement mixed together when father approaches him afterwards. This is really happening. Soon enough she may be finally free of the court and safely away from Joffrey.

* * *

Lord Baratheon agrees to meet with her father the next day. She isn’t certain what father said to convince him, and she doesn’t particularly care. All that matters now is whether the plan will work.

It’s unbecoming, but Sansa still wants to wait outside the chamber doors, to somehow find a way to eavesdrop without employing a servant that could slip and tell.

Luckily enough, the queen provides a distraction, sending a demand disguised as an offer for her and Arya to attend a private lunch. Sansa allows herself a smirk in the privacy of her chambers. Arya seems to still not care for etiquette or niceties, she has no doubt her little sister will find a way to insult the queen within minutes. And Queen Cersei will have to let it happen! Even the queen cannot just get away with retaliation against the daughter of the king’s oldest friend.

It’ll be good for Cersei. For once the queen will have to dine with a lady unwilling to agree with her every opinion and follow her every wish. Perhaps the queen might even learn a bit of humility. (It would never happen, but it is a nice thought.)

* * *

Arya has already insulted the queen twelve times, her ladies in waiting five, and come perilously close to starting a blood feud before the lunch is halfway through. Sansa watches all the while, repressing a smile as Cersei clutches at her goblet with white knuckles and the other ladies faces turn red.

Sansa is just about to ask her little sister how her sword fighting lessons are going, eager to see yet another woman go pale at Arya’s unladylike behavior, when the door opens.

“Your Grace,” the messenger bows, “m’ladies.”

“Lord Stark has requested a moment of Lady Sansa’s time in his quarters.”

Cersei frowns at Sansa, eyes narrowing, before nodding sharply.

“Go on then girl,” the drunk queen snaps. Either she doesn’t notice or doesn’t care as Arya’s eyes narrow in response. Her sister is loyal, and Sansa has no doubt Arya is about to make the queen’s life a living hell. Gods, she missed her so much.

The halls of the palace seem longer than normal as she walks towards her chance to be free. It is a challenge to keep her pace normal and her face calm, to keep her nervous anxiety from showing. She does it though, when you have been playing the game for years you must learn to wear a mask. Gods, she hopes this works. She wants so desperately to be free of court, free of the game.

Father opens the door when she arrives, his face carefully blank. (It’s a beginner’s mistake, of course. When you play the game false emotion is a far better tactic.) 

He opens the door and Sansa steps through, meeting the eyes of Lord Baratheon.

“Good morning, my lord,” Sansa drops into a perfectly executed curtsy.

“Lady Stark.” His tone is cold, but Sansa expected nothing less. “I would like to speak with you.”

Sansa hesitates for a moment before turning to father and giving a look towards the door. He protests at first, but falls quiet when she lays a hand on his arm and gives a pleading look. 

He hesitates a moment longer before giving her a nod and stepping outside.

She waits until the door closes, staring at him with cautious eyes, before he speaks up.

“Your father tells me you wish to marry me,” he sits straight in his chair, eyes boring into her, but Sansa is not one to be cowed. “Why?”

“My father-”

“I want to hear it from you, Lady Stark,” the man replies in a tone that brooks no argument.

Right, of course. Stannis is well known as a man that despises the game.

“I assume you know of your eldest nephew’s habits?” she asks delicately.

“Yes,” Stannis spits out, his face twisted in a sneer.

“Multiple sources, my own contacts and Joffrey himself, have confirmed that the king and queen agree on something for once. They wish me to marry Joffrey.”

“I-” she takes a deep breath, looking to calm herself, “I cannot. I refuse to be married to a man that murders and beats women. I will not let myself suffer the same fate. And I will when the king dies and my family is far away in Winterfell.”

Lord Baratheon watches her, eyes sharp.

“My lord, you have a far better reputation than most.”

Stannis scoffs at that, but falls silent when she raises a hand.

“The worst rumors only claim that you are too dutiful and too honor bound. That makes you a far better man than any at court. I will not lie, I want desperately to be free not only of Joffrey, but of the court and the game. The king wants a Baratheon to marry a Stark, it does not have to be Joffrey. ”

“And what does this arrangement get me?” Hope swells in her. His tone is harsh but his eyes are considering.

“You are widowed, my lord, and have no heirs. I am sure your advisers are pressing you to marry. My mother bore my father five healthy children and the Tullys are well known for having many. In addition, no Stark in generations has ever died in the womb or as a child.”

Sansa presses onward. She needs this, she needs to convince this man. “By marrying me you will have a wife that will almost certainly give you children and the support of a powerful noble house.”

He watches her for a moment longer, eyes considering, before speaking.

“I will think on this, Lady Stark.”

Sansa nearly slumps in her chair, relief overwhelming her. One step closer, she is one step closer to being free of Joffrey.

With a parting curtsy she leaves, stepping outside to find father.

“Well?”

“He said he will think on it. I do think he will say yes,” Sansa responds.

Her father’s look of relief mirrors her own.

“Good. I will press him to decide soon.”

Sansa only nods in response.

* * *

Two days pass. Two days as Lord Baratheon considers, two days where Sansa attempts to distract herself, talking with Arya-who is considerably surprised by her sister’s interest-and listening to the words of her little birds. Two impossibly long days.

Then the third day passes, and she is once again requested at her father’s rooms.

Lord Baratheon is there, sitting at the table, and he turns to face her. Father looks relieved, a smile on his face, and her own mood lightens in response. Surely his good mood means only one thing?

“I agree to this arrangement,” Stannis speaks. “And to the terms set by Lord Stark for this betrothal.”

Sansa beams at him, her smile blinding.

“We technically need Robert’s approval,” he continues, “but my own position means he will be forced to accept.”

“We should tell him now,” her father adds, moving to stand.

Stannis moves to follow him, stopping suddenly when Sansa reaches out and lays a hand on his arm.

“Thank you,” she whispers, ignoring his look of surprise and then discomfort.

Stannis gives only a shaky nod in response before following her father out the door.

Sansa lets out a laugh as soon as they are gone, collapsing onto the couch.

She is free of Joffrey, free of the court. 

She did it. Oh gods, _she did it._  


	2. Chapter 2

Robert’s demand that he come to court is a surprise. Stannis supports his brother, that is true, but he does not like him, and he knows Robert feels the same. That his brother would actually want him at court, that anyone would, is something he knows doesn’t happen. No, he wants something. The only question is what.

Travelling to King’s Landing is uncomfortable in the winter and awful in the summer. And of course Robert insists on Stannis coming to court in the height of summer. He smacks away flies and swelters in the heat and curses his brother, as he has for years.

* * *

 

Stannis can admit to himself he’s dreading this. He’s dreading attending court for the first time in years, he’s dreading dealing with simpering ladies and twittering lords. Stannis will have to interact with them, Stannis will have to listen to them lie and scheme and plot. He hasn’t even reached King’s Landing and he already to flee back to Dragonstone.

Robert is loose-lipped when drunk, and he is always drunk nowadays. Robert’s drunken ramblings reveal Lady Stark is behind his presence at court. The knowledge only increases his already brewing headache. Yet another scheme.

He pushes aside that thought, though, when Robert starts talking. Apparently he plans to marry Joffrey to Lady Stark. And that only makes his headache worse.

Lord Stark is an honorable man, he has no doubt the man will refuse once he hears about Joffrey’s depravities. Robert is unaccustomed to anyone saying no to him since he became king, so Stannis is sure his brother will throw a fit, and of course it will be up to Stannis and Renly to keep it from escalating.

Not for the first time, Stannis curses his brother’s refusal to move on from Lyanna Stark. If Robert didn’t so desperately want a Stark to marry in, the girl would be betrothed to a Northern man and none of this would have happened. 

* * *

 

The good thing, Stannis reflects, about having a reputation like his is that it keeps people from approaching him. No lord has offered him their daughters in years, and even the most ambitious lady will not try to seduce him. Maybe other men would find it insulting, he only considers it a relief.

It’s a surprise, then, when Lord Stark comes to him and requests an audience.

“Lord Baratheon,” the man greets, “I was hoping to speak with you.”

Stannis admits he respects the man, respects how eschews all the empty formalities of court, but maybe those empty pleasantries would’ve eased his mind this time.

At the very least it would’ve kept him from gaping like a fool at what Stark proposes.

* * *

 

“Your daughter wishes to marry me?” he asks, letting his disbelief show.

“My daughter is aware of Joffrey’s flaws, my lord.” Stark responds. “She also wishes to avoid the negative consequences that would come from me refusing Robert.”

Stark pauses, as though wrestling with himself, before leaning forward.

“Please, Stannis. I cannot abide the thought of my daughter alone at court with no one to protect her from the prince. I know House Stark’s reputation has fallen far enough in the South that Robert may try to force the marriage. For my daughter’s sake and the sake of House Stark, consider this offer.”

“I want to speak with her.”

“Of course,” Stark agrees quickly.

Lady Stark is every bit the beauty the stories claim. From her long red hair to her pale blue eyes, to the way the gown stretches across her breasts and shows the dip of her hips.

What intrigues him the most, though, is the determination in her eyes. Beauty is all well and good, but he has never seen such an honest look in a woman playing the game.

As she speaks he is forced to admit she is eloquent too, with a practical side uncommon in King’s Landing.

She is right. Everyone is pressing him to produce a heir, he will have to marry sometime. Who better than a member of a grand house, with a family known for having healthy children?

“I will consider it,” he finally tells her.

It is after she is gone that the implication in her words sinks in fully. Stannis finds himself grinding his teeth without noticing, wondering just what happened to Robert. He assumed Stark would refuse, Robert would throw a fit, and the whole affair would be over. Now though, now both Lord Stark and his daughter are telling him Robert will force the marriage without his assistance.

A part of him wants to refuse, wants to avoid the mess this will undoubtedly create. But Sansa Stark is beautiful, intelligent, and has a practical side he can’t help liking. In addition, he gains the favor of Lord Stark by marrying his daughter, gains the possibility of a heir, and manages to keep an innocent girl out of Joffrey’s clutches.

Yes, he finally decides, he’ll marry Lady Stark. 

* * *

 

Most men would be insufferably pleased to have a lady as beautiful as Sansa Stark smiling at them, looking at them with gratitude in her pale blue eyes.

Stannis only feels discomfited. She is looking at him as though he is her savior, as though he has rescued her from the maw of a dragon, and it makes him uneasy.

He told Robert to reign his son in, he told his brother Joffrey would be out of control with no influence but his mother. It seems his brother didn’t listen, however, and now he finds himself protecting the daughter of Robert’s oldest friend from their future king.

The feeling of unease, of discomfort, only grows as he follows Lord Stark through the halls. Stannis does his best to ignore the way servants and courtiers alike stare as they head to his brother’s rooms. Someone has to have noticed he’s been meeting privately with Stark, this will only inflame the rumors. Hopefully Robert still has a modicum of sense left, and this will be over quickly.

Predictably, Robert is in bed with one of his whores when they arrive. Lord Stark looks away awkwardly as Robert appears with a goblet in one hand and a naked woman in the other.

“Ned! Stannis!” his brother roars, “what’s the occasion?”

The whore on his right giggles, twirling a curl of dark hair around her finger and batting her lashes at Lord Stark with a lascivious smile. Stannis lets his lips twitch, watching the Warden of the North, a man grown, blush because a whore is making advances.

“We need to speak,” Stark finally speaks up, “privately.”

Robert is drunk, but not too drunk to miss the urgency in Stark’s voice.

They wait as the whore is sent away, Robert slapping her naked ass before she puts on what could be generously described as clothes. Stark seems appalled, Stannis only feels resignation. What must it be like for Stark, he can’t help but wonder. How must Stark feel, to spend years picturing his king as a warrior and come back to a drunkard and whoremonger?

“I appreciate your offer to have Sansa marry Joffrey-” Stark starts, tone making it clear he doesn’t appreciate a thing, “but I have just signed a different marriage contract for her.”

“What?” Robert bellows, mood switching from drunken friendliness to something approaching anger. “Why?”

“I think you know why, Robert,” Stark replies, voice uncommonly gentle.

The king sags at that, running a hand down his face.

“How did this happen?” his brother mutters, “how did I end up with a half-mad son?”

“Please, Ned,” Robert practically begs, “I’ll talk to the boy, I’ll make sure he shapes up, I’ll-” Robert blinks then, looks at his brother and blinks again.

“Ned,” the king starts slowly, “why is Stannis here?”

“I am here because Lady Stark is my betrothed.”

The king gapes like a fish at that, eyes shocked, before turning to his oldest friend.

“You can’t do this! You’d give your daughter to Stannis?”

Stannis knows he is no ideal husband for a young lady. He knows he is harsh and cold and distant. He knows he is not a handsome young knight or a rich lord eager to please a pretty young wife. He knows all this, and yet the way Robert says his name still strikes at a long buried hurt.

“Lady Stark,” Stannis says, steel in his voice, “is the one who suggested the match.”

Robert looks to Lord Stark for a denial, but the man only nods in confirmation.

He watches his brother, watches as Robert seems to think it over-as much as he can, anyways. Finally he nods, head straightening in a parody of his once proud stance as he steps forward.

“Aye,” Robert speaks. “I’ll approve this match. Arryn will find someone to plan the wedding, I’m sure, and when it’s done you can take your new bride.”

“What?” Stannis asks before he can stop himself, holding back a flinch when Robert claps a hand on his shoulder and laughs.

“You’re the brother of a king!” Robert roars, “you’ll get a royal wedding!”

He bites back a groan at that, thinking of the endless pomp and circumstance that will ensue, the pointless revelries and expenses that serve to drain already dwindling coffers.

Still, at the end he’ll have a wife. Hopefully Lady Stark will prove as capable as her first impression suggests.


End file.
